Allowing us
by Yuki Scorpio
Summary: Even if death is expected and a release, even if they can both smile about it, the pain it brings perhaps hurts even more than dying. Deathfic.


**Allowing us...**

The tap still drips, an almost annoying metronome of sound, because the washer hasn't been changed, and it's just one of those little things that reinforces reality.

I was supposed to have fixed that tap a long time ago. Six months, a year, I can't be sure now. I have never believed it when people said they lost track of time - how can anyone be not aware of time - but now I experience it myself.

The other day, someone asked if I am a doctor. I said no, and asked him why he thought that. He said I have the smell of hospital disinfectant on me.

The smell of sickness and death must have entered the pores of my skin, the roots of my hair. It lingers and is something that cannot be washed away. The amount of time I spent at the hospital was probably how long ago I was suppose to have fixed the tap.

You smile so much when you hear that dripping sound, as if it tells you that you are really home. I say I am going to go change the washer soon, and you tell me not to, you like that sound.

The dripping water is somewhat like music in the background when I lay you on the bed and pull the stand with the medical drip over so that the tube doesn't tug at your hand. The tip of the tube enters you at the back of your hand, and is secured with some tape. A bit of blood crusted there, and every time I look at your hand I wonder if that hurts, to have a tube piercing you like this.

But then I look at you and I start to wonder if it hurts you to simply breathe. Your skin is no longer pale with the slightest brush of pink, but yellow. Your face is sunken, your tawny hair lack the luster it once had. Each breath you take is shallow, as if you are struggling to get air into your lungs.

I can't say if I was surprised or not that you requested to be taken home today. I think I expected you to. You seemed so much more awake, so aware of everything today, that I know the time has come. No, I don't mean you were not conscious of what was around you in the past. Sometimes you couldn't recognise your doctors, sometimes in your discomfort you made unreasonable demands, but you never really complained, and you always recognised me. You always start to smile when I hold your hand.

I feel your hand search for mine, your movement slow, shaky, but determined. I take your hand in mine and you smile again, a genuinely happy smile.

I join you in the bed and fold my arms around you. My ear close to your lips, I listen to every word you say. I can't remember if we ever talked so much in the past, but now that it has become a struggle to talk, there is so much we want to say. Disease has broken your body, but not your mind. You recall every little incident between us, what made us who we are to each other. Every word you speak comes down to the same message, and I want to hold you tighter because I know what you're trying to say - something we have never spoken directly to each other before, but know in our hearts. But you are so frail now I fear I may crush you with a tighter hold.

You ask me to take your clothes off. I don't know why you ask, but I do it anyway. Perhaps you want to be out of the hospital clothes you are still in. My heart clenches and I want to double up in pain when I see how thin you have become, but I bite my lip, look away, and do as I am asked.

You stop me when I leave the bed to get something else for you to dress in. The smile suddenly dropped from your lips, you open your eyes, showing a sliver of blue, and you tell me to look at you, every inch of you.

The sound of the dripping tap fills the silence when I finally force myself to fulfill this demand. And you ask me what I see.

My breath catches. I see the beautiful man I have loved for almost all my life.

I watch you try to undo the buttons on my shirt, and finally know what you want. I get out of my own clothing and wrap you in my arms again, pulling the blanket over us.

You slowly twine your legs with mine, and let out a satisfied chuckle.

The last sound I ever hear from you.

In my arms, you are still warm. But I know you are no longer hurting, and for that, I allow myself to smile.

The tap still drips. But I don't know if I ever want to fix it anymore.

[end]


End file.
